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Part Six.
The cab driver has coffee-and-cigarette-stained teeth, not that he smiles, but Daniel sees them flashing in the rearview mirror when he rolls the window down to yell at a car in the next lane. Daniel gets a flood of nostalgic-I’m-Harry-Potter-the-celebrity sitting on the sticky plastic seats, he feels like he should be patting down the bangs he’s just spent half an hour molding to perfection with water and hairspray, in order to hide his painted scar. The driver keeps watching him. Daniel has no idea what to expect from New York taxi-drivers, he’s heard passing comments about them but he’s never been one to grasp sarcasm.
Fleeting twinkles dance along the tall darkened buildings, signs blink and the pairs of tail lights remind Daniel of bees swarming into their hive.
He leaves a generous tip as he pays the driver, and watches the cab get whisked away in the river of traffic. Daniel shoves his hands into his pockets and his spine tingles, sighing, he stares up the length of the Vanity Fair building and wishes he’d worn a watch, wishes the structure didn’t look like it would topple down on top of him if he waited around too long. He wishes the cars didn’t look so malicious. He wishes Elijah would show up, and he wishes that guy standing on the corner would cross the damn street already. Daniel likes the idea of being on a desolate street corner waiting for a pedophile to show up more than the idea of standing on the same corner as a random person.
“Hey,” breathy, staled cigarettes, cracked and whispery.
Daniel turns around and sees Elijah, his fingers are lit up from the clove he’s holding, and as he brings the cigarette to his lips, he watches the contours of his face become outlined, it makes his cheeks look heavier.
“Hullo.”
When Elijah speaks, the smoke comes out in streams, a ghost of each word. “Were you waiting long?”
“Not long.” Always polite, white lies can work wonders, give a little smile and hope the burning butt is catching flickers in your big blue eyes, boy.
Elijah nods, looking around before turning his attention back to Daniel. Studying his flawless skin, white porcelain, cherry pink sultry mouth that’s oh-so-blasphemous-but-saintly. Then, oh circles, Elijah’s other hand is tilting Daniel’s chin and there’s the perpetual darkness still glinting with flashlights searchlights, red light, green light, street walk, warm heat inside with the chill chaffing exposed skin and teeth that clink gently, everything in its place, expelled and drunken turning the cacophony of tires squealing and horns abrasive but ignored. Daniel can taste the clove cigarettes, they’re like cinnamon and Christmas, spicy and wonderful, comforting -- his hand gripping the front of Elijah’s hoody, twisting, stretching, pulling, wanting the skin beneath it, wanting revenge for the day’s earlier torment. A hand on top of his, uncurling his fingers, he feels something between them but can’t see what it is, just brushes over it until there’s the searing burning, yelping, biting, tasting metallic blood on Elijah’s lower lip, feeling the rough cut with his tongue. He pulls back, sucks his finger tips and risks a glance at Elijah. He’s smirking, licking his wound and intently watching Daniel. The cigarette’s still twined through his fingers, glowing with a nefarious sexuality that surprises Dan.
“Ever tried one?”
“No.”
Elijah offers the clove to him, and he takes it, holding it curiously, awkwardly. He brings it to his mouth, swirls his tongue around the sugary filter and inhales the way people do in the movies, or in cafes and outside art galleries, on balconies and in little patio bistros. It’s a wave of air plunging through his mind, down his throat, filtering into his lungs, sending shivers into his arm. He’s smoking, and he feels high, he wonders if it’s laced with anything. Just Elijah. Just Elijah back on his tongue again, just Elijah nudging his neck and placing small kisses in deft places, just Elijah’s scent, taste, touch, feathery breaths, the brush of his mouth and the tickle of his hair -- Daniel’s legs feel wiry and want to collapse like the New York Trade Towers, the guy on the corner crossed the street ages ago and maybe he’s glad, maybe he’s worried that there’ll be no witnesses, just the uneven traffic that can’t detect what goes on under the dark shadow of the Vanity Fair building, he’s caught in the lights camera action go go take away the floor and watch him writhe and spread until the seams rip and moan incoherent this is oblivion this is nostalgia and Utopia and glass blown vases shredded and placed in a mosaic glimmer shudder shiver, touch.
Daniel drops the cigarette.
